Joshua Copperman: The thrill of listening to Everything Everything is seeing how far they can push their sound, and the only constant is the bands’ tightness and Jonathan Higgs’ absurd lyrics. Ever since their second album, they’ve almost never crossed the line, developing and expanding their sound. So it’s a bit disappointing to hear them put out a safe step back, with a repetitive, relatively uninspired chorus. Even as further listens reveal the quirky touches typical of the band, that’s the problem — it just feels typical.[6]

Iain Mew: Everything Everything are so good at applying a wide-eyed intensity to juxtapositions of the bizarre and everyday, and blurring the boundaries until the normal is the one which sounds baffling and chilling. My favourite line delivery on their last album was “Blast Doors'” “did you pack your bag or did somebody pack it for you?” and “Can’t Do” nearly matches it with “I want to be done by twenty to four” in the lithe verse, scarier than any horror on the phone. After that it’s mostly sticky, pepped up post-punk that they’ve done well before and will again, but their approach does pretty well at staving off the dullness of musical routine.[7]

Maxwell Cavaseno: Have you ever wondered what 4th tier late 00s “Indies looking to open for Muse” bands like Mutemath would sound trying to reflect tasteful interests in electronic music? Well folks, look no further because these funkless drums and I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter-smooth falsettos are completely devoid of character and radiate a relentless desire to say things without meaning a thing. Ironically the thing they can’t do is Not Suck.[2]

Alfred Soto: I can understand flinging New Order riffs and Radiohead spook into this dirty cauldron, but no one deserves the falsetto. [3]

Tim de Reuse: Gorgeously grungy production and a beefy drum machine and sharp, expressive vocals and an immediately engaging, expertly conveyed nervousness and momentum like bouncing down a mountain — and then, 44 seconds in, a hysterical, dull, terrible hook.[5]

Austin Brown: The recursive “writing a song about writer’s block” thing usually appeals to me, but here it feels like it simply distracts from the real problem with the song. It’s not that it’s underwritten lyrically. It’s more that the indie R&B (throwback, y’all) shuffle waffles between aiming for transcendent, asexual catharsis and arty, slinky Talking Heads cool without ever coming to a conclusion. [4]